


Give & Take (Responsibility/Control)

by sisters_of_the_moon



Series: To Be Born [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Absolution Ritual, Atonement - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Revendreth, basically an exploration of how renathal worked with the souls in his care, before everything went to hell (literally), feat. a random sinner oc i have grown strangely fond of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisters_of_the_moon/pseuds/sisters_of_the_moon
Summary: Revendreth, first and foremost, is a realm of responsibilities. Their prince is no exception - if anything, he was made to embody them. Revendreth was born in Denathrius' image, and Renathal crafted as its reflection.Renathal carrying out his responsibilities as a venthyr by helping his ward process after an absolution ritual.
Relationships: Renathal & Original Male Character(s)
Series: To Be Born [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213271
Kudos: 7





	Give & Take (Responsibility/Control)

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this is part of a longer series i want to write with vignettes focusing around renathal's life pre-drought, maybe some looks at post-rebellion...? basically a lot of headcanoning about the eons where revendreth served its purpose and in turn renathal loyally served denathrius for so very long. this one is renathal-centric, hope u enjoy :)

“Enough. That’s enough.”

The soul sagged into his chains. His frame blurred and frayed - this particular tell of exhaustion always reminded Renathal of the creeping fog in the forests down below; but just the very edge of it, where mist met air.

Velvet rustled as the inquisitors around him scurried to siphon the last few drops of anima from his ward, pooling it into their vessels, grand canisters wrought with black iron and thick glass. They were nearly spilling over, raging red tides swirling about in their confines.

 _This soul has much to give, indeed,_ Renathal mused. _He has much more to give yet._

With the latest harvest bottled, he waved off any inquisitors that remained with instructions to bring it straightaway to the Caretaker. That should finish off his tithes well enough. Truthfully, he was quite sure he could manage to drop off his tithe just the slightest bit late every cycle and no one would raise much of a fuss. Well, save one.

He’d long decided the headache from whichever Harvester of Envy grasping for every bit of stature they could muster would inevitably outweigh any relaxation garnered in the meantime. The Caretaker would have his tithe promptly, and Renathal would be left in peace.

A muffled sob broke him out of his thoughts. _Ah, yes._

The soul curled into himself, ghostly spine quivering with the force of his weeping. His robes - a pale imitation of whatever finery he flaunted in life - clung to his faint form. His teeth grit, his neck bobbed, he tried and failed to swallow his cries. His hands, still shackled to the anima fountain at the wrists, gripped empty air as if it were a lifeline.

“Kalador,” Renathal spoke, for that was his name, lifetimes ago and bathed in the addictive glamor of glory, spellcraft, and empires. Another royal advisor thinking himself a master puppeteer of blood and power, only to line Revendreth’s streets like so many strung up dolls. Still, Renathal removed his shackles gingerly, taking care not to jostle the iron against his frayed spirit.

Kalador groaned. Even free of restraints, his soul simply slumped into Renathal’s waiting arms. “You…” he took a deep breath, as if to say something tremendous, as if there was still any need to this deep in the realms of the dead.

They were surrounded by only silence now, inquisitors and stoneborn alike having dutifully departed to allow them solitude. The carved dredbat of the reliquary loomed above them, cradling them in its stony gaze.

Seconds passed. Kalador’s face twisted and pinched, and Renathal could practically taste the swirling froth of rage brewing on his tongue. But after a beat more, Kalador simply let out another huff, mist and air. He hiccuped.

“You did well,” Renathal assured him. He did. That harvest could feed an entire House for a week, and still leave them surplus enough to play with servants and trinkets alike.

Kalador shifted up a touch, burying his face into Renathal’s shoulder. Renathal raised a hand, letting his claws trail through spectral strands of what he was sure were once luscious locks.

“I thought I was going to die,” he finally said. “Fancy that.”

“The fear of your mortal life still clings to you, Kalador,” Renathal replied. He would know. They needed two stoneborn lieutenants to manage the flood of terror that burst out of him during the extraction, and nearly had to summon another to tame his pride. So often those went hand in hand.

As a result, the ritual had drawn out long - nothing disastrous, Renathal kept him adequately tethered, but longer than he would have liked to let a soul be set adrift to grapple with its burdens.

 _Careless,_ he chided himself. He’d made enough progress with him that he should have expected it, should have thought to request additional assistance beforehand and spared his soul an extension of misery.

“Funny,” Kalador huffed. “Everything I’ve done, and fear is what I’m punished for in the end?”

“No,” Renathal said firmly, but not unkindly. His claws paused, threads of hair dangling from his fingers. “This is not your punishment. That lies below.”

“Right. Because this was such _fun_. Shall I pop the bottles next time, or would you like the honor?”

“Do you feel your fear, now?” Renathal asked him instead. Dropping his hand from hair to shoulder, he squeezed. “Do you still think you are on the brink of death?”

The shade shot up. His hands gripped Renathal’s forearms, and his fingers dug into flesh. “ _Do I?_ Would you like me to describe it for you, Highness?”

His eyes were wide now, pale and lustrous in Revendreth’s eternal dusk, gleaming like twin pearls. Something told Renathal that his charge would very much be describing it regardless of whatever left his own mouth.

“The fear, this fear you so graciously allow me to relive every time you see fit to drag me out of that stone _box_ , is a living thing. It feels like something gnawing in my gut, ready to rip me apart. Ready to be born. Needing to be staunched.” Kalador snarled. “It’s no stranger to me. I’ve always felt it. I’ve _mastered_ it.”

Renathal stared at him for a long moment. “Have you now?”

“Of course.”

“And all that weeping and wailing just now was the delicate art of mastery, I see.”

The shade in front of him scoffed. “That was different. You were allowing it space to… to _roam_. I controlled it in life. That’s all that matters.”

“And all that murder and theft, that was you feeling safe, of course. In control.”

“That was me _taking_ control!” He snapped.

“Whyever would you need to take it, dear Kalador?” Renathal murmured. “I thought you had it.”

“I…” Kalador’s mouth opened and closed, like one of the fish swarming in the murky depths of a fresh muckpool. He turned away. His hands fell away from Renathal’s sleeves and curled into his own chest. Renathal tasted the sweet tang of sorrow on the evening air; the spirit in his arms trembled.

“Just take me back.” His voice was small. “Please.”

“Of course.” Gathering the spirit into his arms, Renathal hoisted him back to his carriage. Though shades could feel little, little was still enough, and so Renathal laid him gently onto the rich red upholstery.

He turned to the dredger at the reins, stubby little feet kicking merrily in the meantime. “Take us to the crypts.”

* * *

Later as Renathal ushered the fallen minister back into his crypt, he heard a whisper come from his charge. Just the barest scratch against air, as Kalador began to settle into his shadowed corner littered with books and scrolls.

“What was that?”

“Starting not to,” Kalador repeated. His eyes cast downward. “Feel it, I mean. The fear. I think, knowing it… makes it less.”

Renathal cupped his shade’s cheek, running a thumb carefully down his jaw. Kalador pressed his face into it. A little - just a little. But little was still enough.

“Thank you, Kalador,” Renathal told him, and meant it. He always did.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed! 
> 
> final notes: i imagine that the crypts might actually be a mercy (later turned cruelty) in that they are a space that souls can call their own for some time, and we do see scrolls/books/etc. inside them so maybe they are a safe haven for them to have some solace while they process all the burdens the rituals have them confront
> 
> i also like to hc that tithing is fairly new in how widespread it is in SL, and that before the nobility took care of most of the tithe beforehand (lets them justify why they get the best souls too as oh so gracious benefactors)
> 
> if u ever wanna talk venthyr headcanons (i am full of them and always hungry to hear more) or wow in general u can find me at dawnblade-disaster on tumblr!


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